


it hurts to set you free, but you'll never follow me.

by cassandra_leeds (The_Circadian)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Croatoan/Endverse (Supernatural), Angst, Drug Use, Fallen Angel Castiel (Supernatural), M/M, Past Relationship(s), Prostitution, Rough Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-18
Updated: 2020-11-18
Packaged: 2021-03-10 06:20:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,338
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27519775
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Circadian/pseuds/cassandra_leeds
Summary: In a future world where utility wins out over the sentimental, Dean trades Castiel drugs for sex acts, though their story runs deeper.Takes place in Endverse.Originally posted on LiveJournal long ago.
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester
Comments: 8
Kudos: 32





	it hurts to set you free, but you'll never follow me.

There’s no room for sentimentality anymore. This is a world of shabby utility, a life of no excuses – you are what you have and what you can use. Clothes that can’t be repaired become bandages, people who can’t shoot a gun learn or die. And what you can’t have easily, you trade for. 

Dean doesn’t even have to say the word now, he just flashes the bag of weed from where it was hidden in his pocket, warm and pressed flat. Or it’s shrooms, long, little and dry and wrapped in wax paper. Or pills as pretty as candy. 

There used to be bartering, because it seemed appropriate.

“You’ve done it all before, what’s the big deal?” 

The unspoken ‘we’ in those words made Castiel feel more betrayed than the neglect. 

The big deal was that Castiel was angry, he was still angry for what Dean had left him with when he cut him off, quick like a faucet. Sam left and for months Dean didn’t touch him at all. At first there was guilt, because of course Dean was upset - it was his brother. Castiel had lost thousands in the war, he knew what grief was. But after a year the silence was maddening. Cas is still patching up the roof where he’d decided one night, while Dean was with some girl that had newly found their camp for safety, that he couldn’t breathe in his own room as it was. Hours later, Castiel had lain on his floor, nails bloody, arms scratched with splinters, the Ritalin still making his heart jump pleasantly though sometimes painfully in his chest. The stars looked down on him from this brutally newborn skylight and for a second he didn’t feel quite the same type of alone – a species that recognizes it’s imprisoned but not extinct and not done fighting. And that is when he really understood that this was anger. Anger with himself but also Dean. Though the emotion filtered through a human body, coursing with adrenaline and blood and bile, sometimes led him to react in ways he didn’t expect. With Dean, anger led to being passively aggressive. If Dean wasn’t going to give all of himself anymore, Cas wasn’t about to give him more than he absolutely had to. 

Over time though, Dean would come to him and propose arrangements, as fair and clinical as if he was talking to anyone, trading food supplies instead of sex. 

“No, Dean,” Castiel had replied. 

“You want an extra sugar ration? What?” 

Castiel huffed out a laugh at just how stupid Dean could be sometimes. 

“Drugs, then.” It wasn’t a question. 

Castiel remembered suddenly, vividly, the way Dean’s lips had felt once on the side of his mouth, the side of his head, how he’d apologized the first time they’d made love because he had bruised Cas in the heat of it. And Castiel thought, what the hell did he have left to lose now? 

Dean sits back on the futon mattress propped against the wall, watches Castiel’s fingers unbuttoning the soft fabric of his linen shirt, slip out of his sandals and open the fly of his pants. He remembers what Dean used to like to see him do and not much has changed. Dean’s breath still gets heavy when Castiel moves his long fingers over his own chest, one hand roaming down past his fly and in to touch at himself, explore his own body. 

“Such a slut for it,” Dean mutters and Castiel doesn’t answer but his body reacts to the words with a jolt, hand squeezing around himself as he whimpers, already wet. Dean’s rubbing at the shape of his own cock through dirty denim, slow teasing strokes over himself until he’s shuddering. Castiel runs one finger delicately over one nipple, tenses at the sensation and as he repeats it, the sensation is so good, so painfully good, he sinks down to his knees on a moan. He supports himself on his free hand and thrusts into the other, wedged tight inside his pants. 

Dean is in front of him in moments, lowering himself to pull Cas up. “How do you stay this pure? How do you fucking stay this pure?” He grits out, pulling out his own cock and rubbing it over Castiel’s cheek, painting it and Castiel’s open mouth with slick precome and the dark musty smell of him. “No matter what I do to you,” Dean says, fingers running back to tangle in Castiel’s hair, guiding Castiel’s mouth to his wet cock, “you just stay,” and Castiel moans softly around Dean’s dick, thrusts his hips forward with small frantic pivots, “God, just so…” Dean groans and thrusts so far back Castiel’s throat flutters, gag reflex giving a small sick warning but Castiel bobs his head and opens his throat, taking Dean down until he can’t make a sound, can’t breathe. They haven’t done this in a very long time. Usually Dean just wants to fuck Castiel’s ass hard and mutter things like “Dirty fucking slut, everyone - you let ‘em all fuck you, just like this. Don’t you?” Until Castiel tells him to shut up and come already. 

But this is an old story, this act. This was something they did with love once, and often. 

“Fuck... fuck…” Dean makes a soft sound like he’s just remembered something and Castiel would laugh if he could manage it. 

Dean’s hips stutter and Castiel keeps up the rhythm of his mouth over Dean’s cock, strong sucks as he works himself hard. He looks up to see Dean’s expression – and he looks like someone else, a dead man Castiel loved long ago, who looked just like this when he was on the edge, who looked like all there was for him in this moment was Castiel. Cas chokes out a thin shout around the length of Dean’s cock, floods his own fist in a brutally sharp peak that leaves him mouthing at air as Dean pulls out of Cas’ mouth, grips a handful of Castiel’s hair and tugs him back, almost off balance, and shoots warm over Castiel’s face, biting back sound as he comes, breathing through the descent like he’s been punched. 

Castiel watches the floor as Dean lowers himself. He feels Dean looking down at him, feels the come running down his cheek, trickling down his neck and chest. But he doesn’t look up. Not yet. He doesn’t need to look up to know that Dean’s gaze is cold again.

But then it occurs to Cas that Dean is taking this and memorizing it, that he’s keeping Castiel like this in his head – a submissive, a broken man, and Castiel’s self-worth suddenly rages up inside him like a storm. He whips his head up, stares Dean in the eyes to dare, _dare_ him to see Castiel differently than a creature that, even human, could finish him in a thought. He hasn’t felt power this strong fill him since he could still feel his wings and he’s drunk with it for a split second before he realizes what he’s looking at. 

Dean is faltering, reaching out, hand wavering floating between them. Like he wants to wipe off Castiel’s face, like he wants to help him up, or pull his face up to his. 

And Castiel is the one examining now as Dean pulls his hand away, turns. 

He sets the brown bag of whatever this trade was for on Castiel’s bureau and is silent as he leaves. 

Castiel cleans himself up slowly, takes a shot of his hidden bottle of Wild Turkey and wanders around his room for a while sipping the second shot in a haze of no thought at all. 

His eyes rest on the bag briefly. When he finally lets himself look inside the musky scent hits his nose in full - a small amount of weed in makeshift sachet; it's wrapped in a piece of something that makes Cas’ heart drop to his stomach, tan thin fabric that Castiel’s fingers know all too well. 


End file.
